


The Good Sheets

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Blood, Face-Sitting, Injury, Oral Sex, Period Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 17:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29264352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: August. Are you okay? Are you safe?Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t safe, pet.And are you—Hush.August comes home.
Relationships: August Walker/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5





	The Good Sheets

The sheets are cool and sticky wet and—

_Fuck._ You’re early. And there go the sheets, all that smooth white percale; so much for slithering in between the sheets all smooth and slick and ready, just waiting for August to arrive; he said _look for me_ and you’ve been looking, you’ve been looking; every day the same and every night a long toss-and-turn until dawn. 

And there’s your groan, that frustrated _unh,_ that _damn it, my good sheets_ but the sound has an unexpected answer; from the doorway there’s a _hnn_ and _fuck_ and _pet. Oh, pet_. And there he is, his shirt all torn and he is spattered with blood and filth, with the wild-eyed stare of a fighting man who smells blood; he’s a shark, a mad dog, but the metaphors fall away and he is 

Just a man. 

He’s hurt and bloody and Christ, the shadows under his eyes are so deep. 

_You’re late._

_Got held up._

_I can see that._ His cuffs are red; his hands are awkward at his sides and those will be broken thumbs, casualties of escape. That’ll be care and bandages and August in one of his soft tight tees to keep the tug of fabric off his wounds. He breathes in sharply, scenting. 

_Pet. You’re bleeding._ But his gaze is dark and hungry; he wants, and he will take, but _pet. You’ll need to undress me._

And of course he can’t grip the buttons of his cuffs; he can’t open his fly, can’t draw himself out and stroke his cock to hardness, not with his hands like that. And it burns him that he cannot get his hands on you, not more than the barest brush of his fingers through the blood smeared sticky on your thighs. But _oh,_ how he commands. 

He says _up you get_ and _on my face, I do not care, get up and ride me hard_ and in the face of August with the burst veins in his eyes and the raw and bloody places where his fingernails once were, in the face of August with his shirt coming off and his ribs beginning to show

( _Oh, August. Where have you been?_

_Down in the deep and the dark, pet, down where men ought not to go. Now ride me, let me taste some blood that’s not my own)_

what can you do except obey?

And the groan he makes when you settle on his face is unreal; it is the sound of a man who sees the sun after a storm. He’s speaking something into you, tonguing and lapping and christ, there’s that groan low in his throat, that _more more more;_ the heels of his hands are on you but he’s pushing you down, begging with his body for the slide and grind of your sweet wet cunt against him, slippery with blood and your own slick; his lips and tongue are quick and clever and he wastes no time in helping you chase your pleasure. 

August’s face is red to the eyes and he is grinning, manic; when you settle to the side and stroke him gently all he says is _you’ve got one more for me. Get on my cock. I want to see blood and come mixed all pink, all over me and you._

_(August. Are you okay? Are you safe?_

_Wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t safe, pet._

_And are you—_

_Hush.)_

He is hard and hot and so goddamn insistent when he pushes inside, when your hands grip to guide him through the breach. And when he settles, when he gives that first testing roll of his hips and finds you so eager, so ready, so   
_  
August, please, I need—_ he bares his teeth with the effort of holding himself together. 

_Rub yourself off, pet. You have to do it on your own this time._ And you mean to, you do, but the smears of blood over his skin and yours are so distracting; he sees the streaks on his belly and groans low; his entire being is coiling tight with need and _pay attention_ he is holding on by the barest thread; his voice is shredded and _pet. I need you to_

_Fuck. I. Yeah._

And you manage; you double down to grasp the thread and pull it hard, trying to find the end even as he’s already there, pulsing and groaning, wrenching you down farther onto him with a hissing wince that says he forgot about his hands. And that is the moment you come for him a second time, your hands falling away, mesmerized by the tight line between his brows, by the way he keeps his hands on you and 

_August. Fuck. Are you—_

_(I’m safe._

_Not what I asked._

_I know.)_


End file.
